The Game of Pain
by Niko Nightwind
Summary: Prompt: To the Pain. It should probably be noted that when I get moody, I rhyme, so this was a random idea I played with. Basically, one of the pilots goes off the deep end and the rest is self explanatory. It's, er...interesting? I won't recommend it...


_**The Game of Pain**_

* * *

There's a fun fact or two to be said about pain.

Pain makes the world run around. My world run around. Was there no pain, the world would not run. Like now. In order to run, one must create. Run…

Running, hah, there's a thought. I like to run.

Running away. From guns. Oh yes, guns are fun. I like guns. Life is interesting when others give chase. With guns, of course.

Or knives.

Knifes are lovely. Play to heart's content dear blades, I dance for blades, I live for blades, I-

Oh, blood.

_Lovely._

I smile with joy, the other fears. I lick away the blood so pure, he knows not what to do! Eyes so wide, he wonders, why such change in me this day? He knows not truth, the fun and games. Oh yes, oh yes, the fun and games, I do so love the fun and games, the sword, so fine, such tempered steel, now snapped in her wielder's gut.

No fear.

Remember now, that pain is real, for to the pain the seeker's thrill, show them _all_ I will tonight, appreciate life's bloodstrewn plight, the joy I thought they all should know, of whipping splendor with reigns of hell.

Ripping now, oh cries of pain! The blood rains down on _everything_. The cries, so sweet, they ring so true, the sticky sleet, what lovely brew. Poor him, he thought he knew, but then rained scarlet sleet of rue. They'll wish they hadn't done it now, the gates of hell bow inward now. Their pride will not last long I think; the aching aspirant always wins.

Limp. Oh, no good now, the song has left, the heavens opened to seize its new prize. It steals from me!

The next shall not be a bandit's game.

Sweetie's here.

Ha-HA! He _screams_! The sight is rare, sweet gentle hands have always cared, so often green, now bloody red, he wants to know why one is dead!

Oh silly fool, he knows not well. Yet young in mind…

He _could_ learn well.

But ho! Condemn my crimson slopes? Sweet green dares defy my right to live? The backbone must have finally stood! Damned fool, he is, to come alone, with no green skis to relish in cherry snow.

Cherry.

My own before I knew for plain, but cherry, now… now _that's_ a game! I wonder if he'd like to play. But 'fore I ask I must please test, and put suspicions down to rest.

He screams again! How I delight! He rips away, but not too late. He pounces back, cradling tender limb; 'fraid that bicep shan't ever be again! But no, no cherry found, the flavor's weak, I must confound, this mystery of mine, it comes and goes, I hate these wandering colored woes! So out I spit that bite of flesh, it wasn't worth the time to check.

And there he stands, still asking why. My, oh my, he starts to _cry_! What wretched being acts as this? This one _deserves_ heaven's bliss!

…

Now the eyes stare, blank as Arabian skies. I leave the room as last tension dies.

Now to find the knifing clown.

He thought to taunt me nigh midnight. He thinks he knows the slights of the knife; he thinks to undermine my rights. Imposters cannot stand for me! Only I know pain's last glees!

Now, perhaps he meets a grave? Or will fire be his save?

Fire.

Red, and orange, pinkish hue, yellow comes to join the game too! A beautiful dance we'll have tonight, to kill the circus freak's grace with delight!

Oh, purple, blue, evergreen too, I had not even _thought_ of you! How American boys do like to play, he plotted these for July days! My luck, for now he has no need, the waste will go to show the greed of simple joys that leave you weak; these fools should never have survived first week.

Frustration kills; I watch him burn, but still he feeds me only spurn! He will not cry, he will not speak; he hardly writhes to acknowledge his blight. Were he true and faithful to life it's to the pain he would have howled! For when your turn is to come, hellish bonds you do not shun!

He finally falls, he can no longer stand; the rocket's dent has come through the other end. And still he silently looks up at me. In silence he prides, in silence he dies.

And now, a shot.

Bang.

Bang.

My turn now.

I turn to look my hunter in the eye.

He holds his gun steady, not looking away. He knows me well; he will not fail.

The fire is catching, flames all around, clearly I hear the crackling sound of wood breaking down at the mercy of heat. Perhaps now my death will be wholly complete. For real pain is denied as with time I have grown used to it's striking wrack.

My killer shakes his head as I drop to my knees, but still steady his gun; he knows I can tease. He steps nearer now, sighs with regret, "Heero," he says, "I've come to collect."

"It's not the first time you've tried to shoot me dead. Next time, try for the head."

The braided boy shrugged, squatting down nearby. "Why'd you do it?" he asked, waiting for me to die. His eyes are dead, his voice his flat; it's no wonder he carries the devil's scythe.

I laid down on my side, biding my time. The fire was paler, its music fainter. Perhaps the magnum craters would kill sooner than later. 'Hn' I grunt, and he ruefully smirks. "You're still the same, I guess." He glanced around, viewing our smoking shroud. "Gotta go." He took a deep breath. He raised up the gun. "I hate good-byes."

Swift as I could, before the discharge, I pulled out a knife shard from the Wufei's first charge. As hard as I could I made it fly true; the American brat was coming down too. He claimed hell's domain as his when truly it's mine; to the pain I have lived, to the pain we must die.

The bullet hits home and I see no more, but the last sight I had was my carve…

…to the heart.


End file.
